He had health and strength, and perhaps, the voice of his private thoughts whispered, perhaps his father’s reign had been mere preparation for this. Xerxes had lashed the sea and bound it with a ribbon across its surface. Oh, it was true the fishermen and merchants had complained. It had not been possible to leave a gate in his floating bridge of ships, so that those on the west had no way through to the eastern part of the Hellespont strait. Some of the richest traders had ridden as a group into the new city, full of pompous indignation as they made demands of his governor.

Xerxes glanced back to where they swung in the breeze. They looked like little brown birds from where he stood, hanging on strings. The imperial governor of Byzantium had chosen to remind all the rest that they served, they lived, only at the whim of the Great King. There had been no more complaints after that.

Xerxes felt calm and purpose flood through him, the mark of his father’s spirit, he was certain. He left the priests to their trances and whispers and mounted again. Almost in answer, the causeway shifted, rising with some great surge of the waters below. It was … oddly discomforting. His engineers had said it was three thousand paces from one side to the other, a wonder and a marvel that had allowed his army to cross over the previous weeks. He could almost imagine the sight as if he flew above, or stood again on the high crag. It would have been like watching sand or a wineskin draining, one side to another. Hundreds of thousands of men, carts and horses had made the crossing. They waited at that moment, on another continent.

Xerxes rode slowly on. He kept his horse on a tight rein as the animal began to step high and snort at this strange road that lifted and fell with the sea. In reply, Xerxes dug in his knees and trotted the last part, slowing only to let his mount step gingerly down onto steady ground. For an instant, that too seemed to rise and fall, then settled.

Ahead of him, imperial regiments stood in perfect array, long banners flapping in the breeze. They had remained in place as the sun appeared on the horizon and the Great King had begun his crossing. Even as he watched, one of the men fainted in the heat and stillness, left where he lay with Xerxes looking on.

Mardonius and more than ninety senior officers formed their own square by the ramp to the bridge. The administration of such a host required clerks and written orders, a second army almost, just to administer the first. The simple task of feeding so many, or replacing worn kit and weapons, required another town to follow, with cooks and trades and slaves of its own.

Each one of his generals had been trained by his father, proving both their competence and their ability to survive. Many were also the sons of his father’s most trusted friends. In the presence of Xerxes, they dismounted and stood with bowed heads, the reins in their hands. They could not lie flat without letting the horses go loose. Xerxes noted that fact with a shiver of anticipation. This was life on the march, already beginning. Rough and simple, it excited him.